


Chemical Physical Kryptonite

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And in the end it's love.</p><p>AU where nobody's bands work out, but they find their way into each other's lives anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chemical Physical Kryptonite

The only thing Pete likes about his inability to sleep past six AM is that it introduced him to Hot Business Guy.

He's awake by six, he's at the coffee shop near the subway by six-thirty, and Hot Business Guy walks in every weekday between six-forty-five and six-fifty. Pete doesn't know his name or what he does or anything about him except that he wears fancy suits that don't fit the neighborhood and he has this perfect face. His bone structure makes Pete want to smash something.

This morning Pete has a raspberry mocha with extra whipped cream. He's staked out a table by the window with his sketchbook and his headphones, and he's going to stay here until ten doing work, Then he'll go home for his midday nap and maybe lunch before he goes to the shop. He has a whole plan for the day, and it starts with Hot Business Guy walking through the door.

Today's suit is dark blue with pinstripes, a dove-gray shirt, and a pale purple tie. Pete doesn't let himself stare until HBG is up at the counter and can't see him anymore. The suit fits really well, especially in the seat-of-the-pants area. Not that Pete's being creepy; he just... noticed.

"Venti latte with a double shot," calls the barista, and HBG steps down to the end of the counter to take his drink. He glances toward the window as he slips the cardboard caddy onto the cup, and for a minute he meets Pete eyes. He smiles faintly, just a twist of his lips, and Pete grins in response. 

HBG passes Pete's table on his way to the door, pausing and leaning in close. "You, um," he says softly. "You have foam all over your face."

Of course he fucking does. "It's whipped cream, actually."

"Sweet." He gives that little smile again, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "I didn't mean that as a pun."

"It was a pretty good one anyway." Pete wipes the back of his hand across his face. "Thanks."

"No problem. Have a nice day." HBG's eyes linger on the sketchbook for a moment. "Make good art."

"Thanks," Pete says again, utterly at a loss for a follow-up, and HBG walks out of the store, crosses the street to the subway entrance, and is gone.

Pete had planned to spend the whole morning working on designing a backpiece for one of his best long-term clients. She's the drummer in an all-girl punk band and has a real thing about mermaids. He had vague ideas about mermaids and sirens and clamshells and drumming that he was going to keep drawing over and over in different ways until it made sense. 

But there's no chance of that now, none whatsoever, his whole morning is officially lost to hopelessly stylized sketches of pinstripes and soft eyes and skinny guys walking out the door.

**

Travis is not thrilled with Pete's lack of progress. Quelle surprise.

"Jenna's coming in to look at designs tomorrow, Wentz." 

"I know, man."

"You don't have a design to show her."

"I know that, too."

"I am not saving your ass this time." 

Pete frowns and throws a box of latex gloves at him. "You never have to save my ass with clients."

"Dragon sleeve."

"I did the dragon sleeve myself!"

" _Red_ dragon sleeve."

"Oh, right." Pete scowls and takes another box of gloves from the closet. "I did the blue and the green dragon sleeves myself, so whatever, two out of three."

"That throat piece for the drummer from Long Island."

"I refused to do that one on principle. It was his girlfriend's name surrounded in flames, he's probably already regretting it."

"What, you think I don't have principles?"

"You have principles about different things." Pete stares into the closet. "Is Gabe placing an order this week?"

"Next week."

"Shit."

"Whatever we're short on, make it stretch."

"I will. But shit."

"That's the life of a small businessman, baby." Travie comes over and puts the box that Pete threw back on the shelf, then rumples Pete's hair. "Looky-loos out on the sidewalk. I'll take these ones, you go do your sketches."

"Thanks, bruv."

"Don't thank me. Do them. Do them now." He kisses the top of Pete's head and Pete leans on him for a minute, then goes back to his counter and takes his sketchpad out again. Maybe Jenna will like a backpiece centered around a giant rendition of Hot Business Guy's pretty eyes.

**

He doesn't make it to the coffee shop the next morning, and then it's the weekend, so he doesn't see HBG until Monday. Black suit, pale yellow shirt, silvery tie. Pete wants to talk to this guy about his combinations of metallics and pastels. 

The window tables were taken when Pete arrived, so he's stuck back by the bathrooms today. He doesn't have a great view of the counter, but he can see HBG glance around after he orders his coffee, checking each table by the window and then the ones by the far wall. Pete raises his hand in a small wave, and gets rewarded with a smile before HBG rushes out the door. So it's mutual, the routine of seeing each other in the morning, they have a _thing_. Pete draws an exclamation point in his sketchbook and shades it into 3-D. 

He's adding some drop-shadow when Gabe walks into the shop, bypasses the counter, and comes over to sit across from him. "Share your coffee," he says, his voice hoarse. "I'm dying here."

Pete pushes his cup toward him. "It's got real milk in it."

"Fuck." Gabe takes a drink anyway. "I'll do penance later."

"What's vegan penance like, anyway?"

"I'll probably just have Trav slap me around a little."

"No details. Roommate code."

"Fuck off, like you can't hear us when we're going at it. We're in the next room."

"I should be allowed to pretend." Pete sets his pencil down and studies Gabe, who's sprawled out in the chair like a cat, legs splayed and eyes closed. He's wearing one of his old Midtown t-shirts, which makes Pete's chest clench up. It's like seeing a glimpse of a past life, or an alternate life where things went differently. Pete doesn't know how Gabe can stand it, dragging things up like that. He burned all of his Arma shit before he left Chicago.

"You didn't come home last night," he says, taking his coffee back. "Everything okay at the bar?"

"Bouncer quit in the middle of his shift. I had to cover it."

"You were bouncing people?"

"I can be very intimidating when I want to be." Gabe raises his eyebrows but keeps his eyes closed. "I would love you forever if you went up and got me a coffee with soy milk and a shot of vanilla."

"I prefer cash to love, dude."

Gabe snorts and digs his wallet out of his pocket. "You have no soul, Wentz. Here. Get me a scone, too."

"Punk is dead and Gabe Saporta is ordering scones." Gabe flips him off with both hands and Pete heads up to the counter to place the order. 

"It's going to be a good day," he says when he comes back and places the coffee and scone in front of Gabe. "I can tell."

"Yeah? Because I'm covering the shop with Trav so you can go to a show tonight instead of working?"

Pete rolls his eyes. "Like it's a hardship for you to hang with Travie."

"It's a hardship for me to tattoo people."

"Don't joke about that." Pretty much the number-one thing Pete has nightmares about these days is the shop being closed down for one reason or another. Gabe tattooing people without a license is right up there. Not that Pete's complaining, really; nightmares about losing the shop are way less awful than the ones he used to have. He's made a lot of progress. That doesn't mean that the idea of Gabe perpetuating ugly tattoos on an unsuspecting public and losing Pete's livelihood doesn't bother him.

"You're no fun." Gabe sips his coffee and groans happily. "This is so good. I'm so happy right now."

"You're delirious from lack of sleep."

"I am. I really am. I'm going to drink this, go home and wake Trav up to make out with me, then pass out for the rest of the day until I come cover the shop. Look at that, Wentz, you were right. It's going to be a good day."

**

The show is at a venue Pete's never been to before, which is a rare thing these days. Pete pays the cover and buys himself two shots and a beer, which is three-fourths of his limit for a show. He can have one more beer later. Any more than that and fights tend to happen, and as of his last birthday he is officially too old to get in fights at clubs without it being pathetic, according to the Saporta rules for that kind of thing.

Pete's pretty sure he owes some kind of sacrifice to a benevolent god for helping him find Travis and then Gabe when he came out to New York. They've kept each other afloat, they've wiped up each other's blood and tears and vomit, they've pulled each other out of bad times and held each other through good. They're tighter than family, but it's the only word Pete can think of for what they have. Brothers. Los tres hermanos de Brooklyn.

And tonight his brothers are covering for him so he can go out, blow off some steam, and have a good time. He downs his shots fast and chases them with the beer, then looks around the venue. The bar is at the end of the floor by the doors, facing the stage. The floor isn't huge, but it isn't chopped up by support pillars, either. The sound board is tucked neatly out of the way and from what Pete can see of the speakers, the sound system is going to be perfectly deafening. This is going to be a good show. He was totally right from the beginning of the day. 

He finishes his beer and pulls his phone out of his pocket to check his messages. Gabe sent him two pictures of Travie touching up a sleeve and one picture of Gabe's hand on Travie's crotch. Business as usual at the shop, then. 

He tucks his phone away and glances up just in time to see the man of his dreams walk through the door.

He's a skinny guy in skinny jeans a Joy Division t-shirt, along with to-die-for black leather boots with buckles halfway up to his knees and heavy shitkicker soles. He's wearing thick, chunky glasses and his hair's combed forward to fall over his face in a carefully-arranged fall. He's hipster kryptonite. He's everything Pete wants to rub up against and hold hands with while eating overpriced gelato.

And they obviously have the same taste in music. Holy grail. 

Pete waves at the bartender and orders his second beer right away, leaning against the bar in the most casual pose he can manage while he waits for it. Dream Guy has to walk past him on his way to the floor. And, thank you Jesus, he looks _right at_ Pete, and _smiles_ at him, all perfect hair and crooked teeth. This is _awesome_.

He ends up going three beers over his limit, just because Dream Guy is distracting with the way he stands and moves and moshes and, well, breathes, really. He's very distracting. The only way Pete can manage to function normally instead of staring at him like a total creep is to keep pouring beer down himself at regular intervals. He barely even notices the band.

He does _not_ , however, get thrown out for fighting, because he's watching Dream Guy instead of getting belligerent at people. And after he throws up in the gutter after the show, he's even semi-sober enough to walk home instead of having to call Travie and Gabe to come help him. It's the little things in life, added up together, that make this a good day. 

**

The next morning, he is way too hungover to do the coffee shop. He stays curled up in bed until noon, occasionally yelling at the wall for Gabe and Travis to get up and bring him water, coffee, toast, or a large knife he can use to cut off his head. They ignore him, because they're assholes. Assholes who are probably having sex instead of helping him in his time of pain. He hates them and is going to move out.

"Shut up," Gabe shouts back after he makes that threat. "You're not going anywhere and it's about time you learned that actions have consequences."

"I have to pee."

"What are we supposed to do about that?"

"Bring me a bowl to pee in."

"You're disgusting, and you'd better not have _ever_ peed in my good bowls. Fuck. Have you been peeing in my bowls?"

Pete can just barely hear Travie say something, but not make out what it is. Apparently it's something that Gabe finds distracting enough to resume ignoring Pete's suffering. Jerks.

He makes it to the coffee shop by mid-afternoon, still grumpy but with enough painkillers in his system to function, and sits working on polishing up the mermaid design for Jenna. It's going to look pretty amazing even in the plain black outline, but when he gets the colors filled in, it's going to be off the fucking charts. Definitely a portfolio piece. 

He sets the drawing aside and rubs his hand over a clean, blank sheet in his sketchbook, hesitating for just a minute before he starts drawing Dream Guy. Strong jawline, those glasses, his hair a stiff, crunchy waterfall of dirty-blond and product over his face. The delicate curve of his eyebrows. Pete's fingers find their way around the guy's face like they know it. 

He adds some shading and rests his chin in his hand. Dream Guy is too pretty to be real. And Pete didn't get his name or number anyway. They'll never see each other again. And Pete is never going to find anyone else, anyone who loves him the way Gabe and Travie love each other. He'll have hookups that leave while he's asleep or short term things that leave him feeling sad all the time. There's no way he's ever going to have what he wants, so why is he tormenting himself with dreams and drawings when he should just--

"Oh, hey!"

Pete looks up, his pen slipping from his fingers. Hot Business Guy is standing by his table, smiling and holding a coffee in one hand and a phone in the other. He doesn't have a suit on today--he's wearing jeans and a Rutgers t-shirt, and for a minute Pete wonders if he has him confused with someone else, because how can anyone be equally hot in such diametrically opposed looks? 

"Hey," He says, trying to gather his wits. "You're... you're not at work."

Hot Business Guy--Hot Casual Guy?--laughs. "I took the day off. I'm too old to work a full day after a late show, you know?" 

"I hear you," Pete says, clutching his coffee with both hands. "I went to a show last night, too. I was so hungover this morning. I thought I was going to die. I'm still not sure I didn't die and this is an after death experience."

Hot Guy gives him an odd look, then smiles. "What did you think?" 

"About what?"

Hot Guy cooks his head to the side. "The show."

"Oh. Um." Pete blinks. "It was good. I've been a fan of the band for ages, I don't know if you'll have heard of them, though, they're kind of punk and you're like a business guy, they're probably not your thing--" 

Hot Guy's eyes light up. "Oh, I see what's happening here."

"What?"

"We were at the same show, dude. I recognized you right away." He grins. "I guess you didn't recognize me, huh? I was incognito in my civvies."

Pete looks down at his sketchbook, the drawings of his dream guy at the club. "Oh my God."

Hot Guy leans in to look at the sketchbook too." Oh wow, that's awesome. You're really good."

"I'm an idiot."

"You're an artist. That's so rad. My brother's an artist, too, he does comics, do you do comics?" 

"No. I'm a tattoo artist. I can't believe I didn't recognize you. I'm so dumb."

"It's cool. No big deal. I was kind of surprised you didn't come talk to me, but now I know it's not that you hate me or something."

"Why would I hate you? I don't... I don't even know of you, I just know you wear suits and drink coffee and probably live in my neighborhood. Nothing to hate. You should hate me, for being dumb and creepy."

"You're not creepy."

"I'm drawing pictures of you."

"I told you, my brother is an artist. I'm used to it." Hot Guy nods at the empty seat across from Pete. "May I?" 

"Oh. Oh, of course. Please." Pete gestures frantically, almost tipping his coffee over his sketchbook. "I'm Pete, by the way. I don't think I've ever said. It's written on my cup, but maybe you don't read other people's cups."

"Mikey." He holds out his hand, smiling a little. "In case you didn't read my cup either."

"Mikey," Pete echoes, shaking his hand. "Hi."

He tries not to stare as Mikey gets himself settled in the chair, looking at his phone for a moment before setting it face-down on the table. “I think I’ve seen you at shows before,” Mikey says. “Always right in the middle of the pit.”

“Whenever I can.” Pete shrugs. “I’m getting old, though. Can’t keep it up forever.”

“Sure you can.” Mikey smiles slightly. “So… tattoos, huh?”

“Yeah. My roommate and I have a shop a few blocks from here. And his boyfriend. I mean, his boyfriend is an investor, sort of, I guess there’s not enough money involved for it to be a real investment but he bails us out when we’re short. He doesn’t tattoo. God. He would be so bad at it. We’d get shut down.”

Mikey’s mouth is still only quirked up at the edges, but his eyes are warm enough that Pete is pretty sure he’s not bored yet. “Did you design any of your own? They’re great.”

“Oh… no. I feel like it would be rude not to let the other artist express themselves, you know?”

“That makes sense.” Mikey takes another drink, his eyes tracing the lines of ink on Pete’s arms. Pete holds his hands out, palm-down at first and then turning his wrists back and forth so Mikey can see more.

“Rad,” Mikey says finally, settling back in his chair. “I’m jealous. Right at the time I should’ve been getting inked up and going wild, I started a finance internship and that was the end of that.”

“You do… finance?” Pete isn’t totally sure what that means. “Like, you work at a bank?”

“I’m a stockbroker.” Mikey winces. “And I just actually _saw_ you write me off in your head. Damn.”

“What? No. I didn’t. I don’t even know what a stockbroker does.”

“I buy and sell stocks, on behalf of a large financial institution.” He makes a face. “Basically I’m the bourgeois enemy and half the people who live in my building would be happy to set me on fire.”

“I’m really into pacifism these days.”

“That’s awesome. There’s a mixture of hippies and violent anarchists in my building. I try to keep them bribed with pizza.”

“Couldn’t you just live somewhere else?”

“Eh.” Mikey shrugs. “I don’t want to totally lose my soul. I like this neighborhood. There’s good food, good shows. My brother feels comfortable when he comes to visit.” He hesitates for a beat, his fingers fluttering against the table. “There’s a decent queer scene.”

Pete knows a test when he hears one. Signal acknowledged and answered. “Yeah, totally. You go to Julian’s?”

Mikey’s smile widens into a real grin, flashing crooked teeth. “Yeah! I guess we must tend to be there at different times. I definitely would’ve hit on you if I met you there.”

Signal _exceeded_. Pete decides to go for it. “Are you hitting on me now?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Do you like to hook up or go on dates?”

Mikey giggles, covering his mouth with one hand and setting his coffee cup down. “This is so much better than I thought this was going to go. Um. Which do you prefer?”

“I like both. They’re both awesome. I mean, hooking up is _hooking up_ , but dates are just, like…” Pete waves his hand. 

Mikey nods. “There’s something to be said for anticipation.”

“So, do you want to go on a date?”

“I want to ask you on a date.”

Pete sits up straighter. “Go for it.”

Mikey thinks for a minute, his face twisting up a little and then settling into a carefully blank look. “Hey, I know we just met and stuff, but I’ve been seeing you around for ages and maybe we could go out sometime, if you want.”

Pete wasn’t expecting actual roleplay. He can roll with it, though. “I’d like that a lot. What did you have in mind?”

“Would you like to go with me to Julian’s on Friday night?”

“That’s techno dance party night, right?”

Mikey nods slowly. “Sorry it’s not 80s night, but I don’t want to wait another two weeks.”

“I can dig techno. Yes. Date accepted.”

Mikey grins. “One more question?”

“Shoot.”

“You want to go back to my place with me right now, too? I mean, we can date _and_ hook up, right? There’s no rule.”

“There’s definitely no rule,” Pete says, getting to his feet and throwing his coffee cup into the trash. His feet get tangled up in each other and he’s _so_ close to eating floor, but whatever guardian angel looks out for loser queer punks reaches down and saves him.

This day is definitely looking up.

**

Mikey’s apartment is a total mess, but it’s a good mess, a lived-in mess, not the sad derelict mess Pete’s living spaces slid into before he moved in with Gabe and Travie. There are books and comic books and DVDs everywhere, and at least three video game consoles he can see before Mikey hustles him through the living room and into the bedroom.

The bed is _awesome_. It’s huge. Pete could probably lie spread-eagle on it and not reach both sides of the mattress. “Wow.”

“My first piece of indulgent spending,” Mikey says, tugging his t-shirt off over his head. “They almost refused to deliver it because they weren’t sure they could get it up the stairs.”

“Why do you ever get out of bed?”

“Why are you still wearing clothes?”

That’s a better question, so Pete shuts up and strips down. Mikey’s looking at him all appreciatively, and Pete’s more than happy to return the favor. Long and lanky and kinda bony. If he can get Gabe, Travie, and Mikey all in one place, it’ll be a perfect triptych and he’ll never stop staring at them and jerking off. God, he has such a type.

Mikey sits down on the edge of the bed and raises his eyebrows. “Coming?”

“Uh.” Pete wishes there was some way to make taking socks off look sexy. “Am I supposed to make a joke?”

“No. You’re supposed to get over here so I can get my hands on you.”

Forget looking sexy. He strips his socks off and hurries to the bed, closing his eyes as Mikey’s hands settle on his hips and pull him in close. “I’m so fucking glad I had a hangover today, you have no idea.”

Mikey laughs. “That’s why you were getting coffee late? Me too.”

“Thank god for hangovers.”

“Just this once.” Mikey slides his hands up to Pete’s shoulders, steadying him for a moment, then pulls him in for a kiss. 

It’s good, it’s—it’s really good. Pete hasn’t been kissed at all for a while, but he hasn’t been kissed like _this_ for a really, really long time.

“Good?” Mikey asks, his tongue flicking against Pete’s lips.

“Yeah.” Pete nods and moves to straddle him. “Really good. Let’s do this.”

“Where do you want to start?” Mikey lies back and smiles. “I’m all yours.”

**

Pete walks into the tattoo shop with his best casual, calm expression, but Gabe has eyes like a hawk.

“You went from hangover to hooking up,” Gabe says, closing the notebook in front of him on the desk. “Excellent. Tell me the important stuff.”

“I’m not telling you anything. Is Trav busy?”

“He’s got a walk-in. Give me _something_ , Petey. I’m bored and my dick is soft.”

“That is not my problem.” Pete goes over to the desk and reaches for the notebook. “What are you working on?”

Gabe snatches it back to his chest. “It’s not ready yet.”

Gabe’s more touchy about his first drafts than Pete is about his sketches. It doesn’t really make any sense to Pete, but he’s learned to just go with it. “Okay. But let me see it once it’s ready. I like reading your stuff.”

Gabe glares at him, but the corner of his mouth twitches in the way that means he’s touched, and experiencing gentle emotions, so he’s trying to think of something sarcastic to say to cover them up. Pete boosts himself up on the desk with his hands, leans in, and bumps his forehead against Gabe’s.

“Ow,” Gabe says, and sticks his tongue out at him.

Pete drops back to the floor before his arms give out on him. “Just let me say nice things to you without shooting me down, dickface.”

“Lick my entire ass, Petey.” 

“That’s Travie’s job.” Pete goes back to the workroom and nods at the client sitting on Travie’s table. “Don’t mind me. Just setting up.”

“The mermaid sleeve today?” Trav asks, not taking his eyes off his work.

“Approving the drawing and hopefully starting some linework.”

Trav nods and pauses to re-ink his needle. “Unless she doesn’t approve the drawing.”

“Why would you say that? Why would you jinx me?”

“Just keeping your feet on the ground, bruv.” Trav’s client looks nervous, so Pete doesn’t tell him to fuck off, turning to set up his station instead. She’s going to approve the drawing. It’s going to be _fine_.

And even if she doesn’t, even if he has to do another round of sketches, he had sex with a hot guy and that hot guy still wants to go on a date with him. Today is awesome no matter what happens next. 

It’s quiet in the back except for the buzz of Trav’s machine; this client isn’t a talker, and Travie always adjusts himself to what makes the client comfortable. Pete can’t help talking while he works. If the client doesn’t talk back, that’s okay, he can keep up a pretty solid monologue. He just can’t stand silence and heavy buzzing.

Which means that once he gets his station set up, he has to go back up front with Gabe or the workroom will drive him out of his mind.

Gabe is staring off into space, tapping a pen against his teeth. “The music of your youth?” Pete asks, pointing at the speakers.

“The music of my first band.” Gabe makes a face. “I’ve played it for you before.”

“Oh right. I just didn’t recognize it at first.” Pete mentally rearranges his expectations of the rest of the day. If Gabe is listening to Humble Beginnings and being thoughtful in the early evening, he’ll be drunk off his face by midnight. If he switches to Midtown, Pete’s going to have to alert Trav so they can intervene before he goes out and buys hard stuff.

“Let’s put on some Metallica,” he says when the song finishes. “Pick up the mood a little.”

Gabe glares at him for a minute, then turns to change the music. “I know what you’re doing, Peter, and the only reason I’m allowing it is that I have to sub in at the bar tonight and if I get trashed on duty I have to fine _myself_ or set a bad example to the staff.”

“Why do you have to sub in?”

“Fucking college kids quitting to go to law school or… whatever shit. I don’t know. I had two quit at the same time and I’m gonna be scrambling to cover the rest of the week.”

Pete mentally flips through his appointments. “I can help out tomorrow night. No appointments and Shonna’s coming in to cover walk-ins.”

“Shonna is coming in because she wants Travie’s dick.”

“No, she wants a decent night’s cut so she can pay her rent. Don’t be a jerk.”

Gabe starts tapping the pen again as the music comes up. “Fine. It would really be great if you can help tomorrow night. Thank you.”

“We all help each other,” Pete reminds him. “It’s the only reason any of us are still here.”

“I know it, brother.” Gabe smiles at him; it’s not much of one, but it counts. “And there’s your appointment coming down the sidewalk. Let’s give her a thumbs-up for being right on time.”

**

Subbing in at the bar is Pete’s favorite side gig. He’s helped Gabe out as a bouncer a few times, and that sucks, because drunks see that he’s tiny and think they can take him, and proving them wrong takes a lot of time and bruises. But bartending rarely involves getting punched. He gets a share of the tips. He’s allowed to help himself to the well liquor and any beer he wants. And people don’t usually cuss him out or throw things at him. It’s a decent way to spend an evening.

Tonight there’s a live band, too, which is cool. They’re not great but they’re trying, and their ratio of covers to original songs is good. Pete hums along to the covers and bobs his head to the originals, nursing a vodka tonic and keeping the drinks moving along the bar.

At about eleven thirty, Mikey comes in, and Pete almost drops a guy’s change into his beer. Mikey’s done up _goth_ ; stompy boots, black everything, white make-up and heavy eyeliner. His hair is arranged in a complicated messy nest of gel and hairspray. It’s terrible and awesome.

The guy he’s with looks more like a vampire. Not in the sense that he’s wearing a costume, but more like he doesn’t see the sun much and he probably smells like a crypt. His eyeliner is probably a week old and still grimly hanging on through the sheer power of greasy skin.

He has one arm around Mikey’s waist and is stretching up to talk in his ear. Mikey’s nodding, his brow kind of furrowed up, and Pete’s stomach does a whole round of flip-flops, ending in a triple axel and a backflip when Mikey looks up, sees him, and smiles.

“Pete!” Mikey crosses to the bar, the other guy following along behind him. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Just helping out tonight.” Pete smiles at him, trying not to let himself look at the other guy, in case he couldn’t help looking suspicious or weirded out. “What can I get you?”

“Vodka rocks for me, and a Diet Coke for my brother.”

“Your brother?” Pete looks at the other guy now. “The artist?”

“Yes.” Mikey reached back without looking, grabbing his brother’s arm and pulling him up to the bar. “Gerard, this is Pete, the guy I was telling you about. Pete, this is Gerard.”

“Nice to meet you.” Pete wiped his hand on his t-shirt before he offered it, though he couldn’t imagine it would make a difference to Gerard. “Mikey told me about your work. Not in detail or anything, but that it’s really good.”

“Mikey has to say that.” Gerard’s eyes darted around the bar, anywhere but at Pete’s face. “He’s my little brother, he has to think I’m great.”

“You are great,” Mikey says firmly. Pete stares at them, trying to read the crackles of energy obviously communicating volumes between them, but he doesn’t have the code and after a minute he turns away to make the drinks.

“Are we still on for Julian’s?” Mikey asks when Pete turns back again. “I’m keeping Gee company tonight but if I’d known you were going to be here I would’ve tried to shift things around.”

“Oh, dude.” Pete shakes his head. “You didn’t know. I didn’t know. It’s not a thing. We’re still on.”

“Good.” Mikey smiles at him and then downs half his drink in a long swallow. “Have a good night, man.”

“You too.” Pete watches them go, one hand pressing against his stomach to keep back the feelings rushing around. He isn’t sure what all of them are; it’s hard to sort through the inside of his head when the music is loud and people are trying to get his attention for drinks. Lust, definitely. That one is clear. Some jealousy that he can’t begin to sort out. It’ll all have to wait.

He’ll sort it out later, when he gets home and crawls into bed sticky and sweaty and with a wad of tip money in the pocket of his jeans. He’s always too tired to take them off after bar nights. It’s part of the ritual now.

**

He wakes up in the morning to the sound of Gabe and Travie having sex in the next room. They’re both really vocal, and super-into each other, and the walls are thin, and yeah. He knows way too much about how much Gabe can physically take. Insertion-wise. And other things. And it’s _moderately_ more bearable after the really good sex with Mikey, but it’s still not fun.

Especially because of the whole _they love each other and will be together forever_ angle. If he didn’t love them so much he would hate them both.

He puts a pillow over his face and lies there for a while, belatedly trying to sort through his feelings from seeing Mikey at the bar. Lust, check. Jealousy that his brother got time with him, check, and that one was weird and inappropriate, because they’re _brothers_ and Pete barely knows him. They’ve had sex once and they don’t even know each other’s last names. He needs to get a grip.

Lust, inappropriate jealousy, guilt over inappropriate jealousy. Continuing confusion over the fact that a guy who makes stockbroker money lives in and parties in and generally occupies the same world that Pete and his friends do. Gerard looks like he probably would fit in just fine around here; another broke artist. Mikey’s presence is… strange.

But it’s not like Pete wants him to leave.

He takes the pillow off so he can breathe, then hauls himself out of bed and goes down the hall to pee and start the critical kitchen appliances. Coffee maker. Toaster. Microwave, once his bowl of oatmeal is ready to be heated up.

“Peter, my friend, my darling, chunk of my heart.” Gabe frowns at him from the doorway. “Why are you making microwave oatmeal shit when I could make you the real thing, on the stovetop, organic and pure?”

Pete mumbles his answer around a mouthful of toast. “Because I hate your organic pure crap and I love microwave oatmeal.”

“You’re a monster.” Gabe goes to the coffee machine and croons at it like it’s his pet. “Good morning, baby, I love you.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling Trav that?” Pete pours brown sugar on his oatmeal, stirs it, and adds more. “Early-morning fistings should get as least as much love as coffee.”

“I told him many nice things, don’t you worry.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

Gabe hip-checks him against the cabinets, then pours his coffee. “Thanks for helping out last night. Did it go okay?”

“It was fine. Great, even. Good tips. No fights.” Pete takes a spoonful, chews and swallows. “That guy was there. The one I hooked up with.”

“Hot guy from the coffee shop? That guy?”

“Yeah.” Pete nods and takes another bite. “Mikey,” he mumbles.

Gabe stops, frowning. “Did you say Mikey?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he from Jersey?”

Pete shrugs. “We didn’t do that much talking.”

“Is he like… cheekbones for days, kinda dry sense of humor, glasses? Does he drink vodka tonics?”

“Vodka rocks. But otherwise that’s… yeah, all of that.”

Gabe shakes his head. “I’ll be fucked.”

“You already _were_ fucked.”

“Shut up.” Gabe frowns at his coffee. “Did he mention a brother?”

“He had a brother _with_ him,” Pete mumbles around more oatmeal. “Gerard.”

“Holy shit, Petey.” Gabe slaps him on the back with way more force than necessary, and Pete’s spoon flies through the air and vanishes between the cabinets and the refrigerator. “You have been boning in ground I already plowed, brother. You have brought back to me one of the great sexperiences of my misspent youth. We all figured Mikey Way was _dead_. He’s alive and an artsy asshole like the rest of us?”

“Kind of.” Pete’s mother would be so mad at him if she knew he was eating oatmeal with his fingers. Fortunately she is many miles away. “He’s a stockbroker.”

He didn’t even know Gabe’s face could _do_ that. Wow.

** 

Pete only convinces Gabe not to crash his date with Mikey by promising that they’ll come back to the apartment after techno night at Julian’s.

“It turns out you know my roommate,” he tells Mikey while they’re waiting in line to get in. “Not my roommate the tattoo artist, but the other one. The one who part-owns a lot of things and writes novels he won’t let anyone read.”

“Yeah?” Mikey frowns a little, bouncing on his toes. “How do we know each other? What’s his name?”

“You knew each other growing up, I guess.” The line advances and Pete shuffles forward, watching his feet to keep from stepping on anyone’s heels. “His name’s Gabe. Gabe Saporta.”

Mikey stops and stares at him for a moment, then laughs, the big loud honking laugh that Pete’s only heard like once before. He likes it. He likes Mikey’s usual weird little giggle, too, but the laugh is… it’s something else.

“Gabe Saporta,” Mikey says, grinning. “Wow. I thought he was dead.”

“That’s what he said about you. I’m a little worried, I’m not gonna lie, what is going on in Jersey that you keep assuming people just drop dead when you don’t hear from them for a while?”

“We were kind of crazy. It’s amazing any of us survived in the first place.” Mikey tilts his head back and stares up at the grimy brick and the vague sense of the sky beyond. “Holy crap. Gabe Saporta. And I’m sort of seeing his roommate. What a small fucking world.”

Sort of seeing. Pete can live with that. He’d rather level up, but for now it’ll do. “He already told me you guys slept together, so you don’t have to, like, worry about me knowing.”

“I was the first dick he ever sucked. He probably didn’t mention that part.”

Pete blinks at him. “No, he did not.”

“He would lie about it right in front of me, all, ‘oh, I’ve been with so many guys, I’ve been around, I’ve been doing this forever,’ and I’m like, dude, I am standing right here, you cried the first time you blew me, why are you so fucking weird and egotistical.” The line moves forward again and Mikey shoves his hands in his pockets, still grinning. “Man. What a coincidence. Shit.”

“He and Travie are together.” Pete doesn’t know why these words are coming out of his mouth, or why they have such an edge to them, but apparently it’s happening. “Like, committed. Monogamous. Except when they’re not. But most of the time they are. Our bedrooms share a wall, so I, like… I hear all of it.”

Mikey glances at him, one eyebrow going up. “Does he still cry when he gives head?”

“No. No crying.” 

“Good for him.” Mikey reaches out and hooks a finger in Pete’s belt loop, pulling him closer. “You want to not talk about him right now, huh?”

“Well, you know.” Pete’s face feels so hot it hurts. He hopes the bad light means Mikey won’t notice. “We’re on a date.”

“We are.” Mikey releases Pete’s jeans and takes his hand instead. “No more Gabe tonight, I promise.”

“Well. Um. No more Gabe til we leave here.” There’s no way Mikey doesn’t know he’s blushing now. They could be at the bottom of a well and it would be obvious. “I told him I’d bring you home after.”

That eyebrow goes up again. Pete wants to bite it. “You’re already planning on taking me home tonight?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Awesome.” Mikey squeezes his hand as the bouncer finally waves them through. “Glad I don’t have to wonder about that all night. Let’s get shitfaced.”

**

Gabe and Mikey’s reunion hug is an epic thing of beauty. If Pete hadn’t started to sober up already, he probably would be crying. 

As it is, he does a fast, stylized sketch of them on the last page of Gabe’s notebook that he’d left on the table when Pete and Mikey came in. The sketch is mostly lines and angles, because _they_ are mostly lines and angles, skinny arms and sharp eyebrows and stupid long legs. 

Pete adds some swirls to suggest the curls Gabe’s hair, and some scattered scribbling for the stubble on Mikey’s jaw. They’re still hugging, Gabe whispering in Mikey’s ear, Mikey smiling. It’s a close-mouthed smile, not the big grin, but his eyes are all crinkly at the edges and so happy. It makes Pete’s heart ache. Probably if he could see Gabe’s face instead of the back of his head, his heart would actually explode.

“You’re alive, I’m alive, _Gerard_ is alive, goddamn.” Gabe finally steps back, shaking his head. “We could collect so much money from assholes all over Jersey who bet against us.”

“Nobody ever won anything betting against G. Saporta.” Mikey sits down on the edge of the table, still smiling. 

“Is that a saying from back in the day?” Pete asks, trying to find his way back into the room. 

“It’s something _he_ would say.” Mikey nods at Gabe. “Usually right before he got his ass kicked.”

“I never got my ass kicked. I was a fucking champion.” Gabe’s grin stretches from ear to ear, and yes, Pete can feel his heart cracking around the edges. God. This… this _thing_. People belonging to people. Not in the romantic way, but the way where they all fit into each other’s hearts. It’s like the echo of a drumbeat, filling him up. It’s too much. It’s everything. “You’re the one who got your ass kicked, Way. All the fucking time.”

“Sure did.” Mikey giggles and ducks his head. “Man. We should celebrate.”

“I’m down.” Gabe claps his hands. “Trav’ll be home soon. We can all go out. Get vegan burritos. Talk philosophy til dawn.”

“Dawn might be pushing it.”

“That _reminds_ me.” Gabe points at him. “Petey told me you’ve become bourgeois scum.”

“I didn’t use those words,” Pete says, and to his relief, Mikey reaches for his hand and tugs him in close while Gabe goes on.

“I’m searching my heart to forgive you, Mikey Way, but I just want you to know that I’m not mad, I’m _disappointed_. In everything you’ve chosen to be.”

Mikey rubs his thumb over the back of Pete’s hand. “Pete said you’re part-owner of a bunch of things. That is also bourgeois. Pretty much by definition, I think.”

Gabe waves his hand. “I only own them so I can destroy them later. I’m a double agent.”

“A double agent in boat shoes.” Mikey nods slowly. “I dig it.”

“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” Gabe goes to the freezer and emerges with a bottle of vodka, and Pete closes his eyes for a minute, willing his stomach to hang on for round two, because apparently they are going to _do this_.

“I apologize in advance for getting too drunk to fuck,” Mikey says quietly, bringing Pete’s hand up to his mouth. Instead of kissing it, he bites Pete’s wrist, leaving a crooked circle of teeth marks on the tight skin across the bone. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“So you’re not going to leave me for Gabe?” Pete tries to keep his voice light, like it’s a joke, not something that’s been clawing at the back of his brain all night.”

Mikey bites him again, then lets him go. “You made a point of telling me that he and his boyfriend are monogamous. And I would never be able to let him go down on me without thinking about the crying.”

It isn’t really what Pete wanted to hear, but he makes himself smile anyway. “Okay.”

“Also I’m kind of stupid into you.” Mikey raises both eyebrows at him this time, his face solemn. “In case you couldn’t tell.”

Pete wants to say something awesome in return, but his words have ditched him for someone taller, so he leans in and kisses Mikey instead. 

“That’s what I like to see,” Gabe says, lining up a row of shot glasses on the table. “Let’s do this shit.”

**

Pete wakes up in his own bed, with Mikey’s arms around him, Mikey’s boner poking at his hip, and the taste of death and old socks in his mouth.

“Urp,” he mumbles, trying to work his tongue enough to salivate. “Urp. Mmph. Mikey?”

“Mmm.” Mikey pulls him back closer.

“Need water.”

“Hmm.”

“For real. I think I’m gonna die.”

Mikey sighs, a long exhale against Pete’s neck that ends in a rough groan. “Oh. Fuck.”

“We drank so much.”

“What _was_ it?”

“Everything, probably.” Pete is pretty sure his misery is a physical thing, sitting on his chest and suffocating him. “Gabe’s fault.”

“Everything is Gabe’s fault.” Mikey shifts, bumping his erection against Pete again. “So I slept over.”

“Yeah. But I don’t think we did anything.”

“We’ve both still got clothes on.” Mikey mouths at Pete’s neck, dry and without apparent intent. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“We both knew we were too drunk for it to happen. I remember that part.” Pete takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna sit up.”

“Good luck.” Mikey shifts away, turning onto his back. Pete achieves a vertical position and immediately wishes that he hadn’t.

“Peeing,” he says. “Water. Pills. What else?”

“More alcohol.”

“Oh god. No.”

“If you’re going to be a functioning alcoholic, you’ve gotta aim for the stars, man.”

Pete sits there for a moment, until his throbbing head makes the decision that parsing that sentence will have to wait until later. “I’ll be right back.”

There’s Gatorade in the kitchen, because someone, probably Travie, is a goddamn saint who wants them to be happy. Pete takes two bottles and all of the Tylenol back to his bedroom. “Score.”

Mikey is also sitting up now, his face spectacularly haggard and his hair a wild, convoluted swirl clinging to his head like a bird. “Red Gatorade. You’re fuckin’ magic.”

“Travie is.” Pete divides up bottles and pills and sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “So. I don’t remember a ton about last night round two, but I remember you and Gabe doing karaoke.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It was great.” Pete takes a drink and closes his eyes. “It felt, like, so good, to see the people I care about more than anything and the new person I’m pretty sure I’m gonna care about a lot just… getting along.”

Mikey’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Pete looks up. “You’re pretty sure about me?”

“Is that weird? Too much?”

“No. I like it.” His mouth twists, and he takes a drink. “I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I like it.”

“I don’t think I believe that things have to last to matter. I mean, I think about it a lot. I don’t know if I’m right, but I really _want_ to be.”

Mikey laughs softly and twists the cap back onto his bottle, setting it aside on the bedside table. “You’re so fucking…”

“Short. Weird. Unhelpful.”

“Amazing.” Mikey reaches for him. “Come here.”

Slow, careful hangover kissing is good. Exploratory, fumbly hangover touching is good. Mikey jerking him off with a brief stop for more Gatorade and helpless mutual giggling is awesome.

Pete goes down on him, hangover and all, and that’s even awesomer, but the mutual unspoken decision to fall asleep again afterward is the best part.

**

Their next date is carryout Indian that Mikey brings to the tattoo shop. They put a sign on the door saying closed for half an hour and eat picnic-style in the back, everything spread out on the floor.

“Are you qualified to give financial advice to small businesses?” Travie asks, leaning back against his table and resting his feet in Gabe’s lap.

“Absolutely not.” Mikey makes a face and picks at his daal. “I sort of fell into the stockbroker shit. I don’t know anything about anything. I can do some investments for you if you want. Mostly I do giant accounts where little fluctuations don’t matter. You’d have smaller accounts so there’s more potential for getting fucked up.”

“We have no account,” Gabe says, tapping his fingers against Travie’s ankles. “My investments are living businesses, I’ve got nothing left over for your gig. And these two don’t have any money at all, period.”

Travie rolls his eyes. “It’s all rolled up in _this_ living business, actually, asshole.”

“You love my asshole.”

“Don’t,” Pete says firmly. “Stop. Not while we’re eating.”

Gabe’s whole face lights up and Pete closes his eyes, waiting for the eating ass punchline he set up singlehandedly. 

It doesn’t come, though; Travie wiggles his feet against Gabe’s dick and Gabe subsides into staring at him and packing away samosas like there’s no tomorrow.

Mikey smiles at Pete across the little space. “This is rad, you know?”

“Which part?”

“Everything. It just feels really good to be here with you guys.”

“You’re welcome any time,” Pete says, hoping his voice conveys even a tenth of how much he means it.

“But you want solo time, too, right?”

“Solo time at _your_ place,” Gabe says. “You were fucking loud as hell the other morning.”

Pete throws a fork at him. “You’re one to talk. You guys are fucking loud as hell _all the time_. I can tell how much fingers he’s got in you by how loud you are.”

“My baby takes it so good.” Travie’s voice drops to a low growl and Gabe licks his lips. Pete gives up on his food entirely and climbs to his feet. 

“They’re going to mess around until it’s time to unlock the door again,” he tells Mikey. “Let’s go for a walk and let them have at it.”

**

Outside it’s warm, and pretty quiet for the neighborhood and the time of night. Mikey offers his hand and Pete takes it, curling their fingers together.

“You guys are great,” Mikey says quietly. “I really mean it.”

“I’m glad I found them.”

“You’re great, too. Like, as a solo entity.” Mikey exhales slowly, tilting his head back. “It’s really going to suck when you figure out that you’re too good for me.”

Pete stops, keeping his hold tight on Mikey’s hand so he can’t walk away. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve got issues, Pete. I’m fucked up. The more time I spend with you, and how great you are, the more I know you don’t deserve that.”

“The whole idea of deserving things is bullshit.”

Mikey shakes his head. “You don’t know.”

“I know a lot. Dude. You want to have a fucked-up face-off? Because I can do that. And we will be up all night. I’ve got diagnoses. I’ve got statements from law enforcement and medical professionals. I’ve got parents who send checks so I don’t come back to Chicago.”

“Really?”

“Well, they don’t say it like that, but I know. I can tell things.” Pete shrugs. “So what’s your damage? You’ve still got your brother, so I win the family round, at least, you know?”

Mikey laughs, a harsh breathless sound that’s nothing like his usual giggle. “Yeah, I’ve got my brother. I’ve got him forever. We’re gonna drag each other down or lift each other up, and the jury’s still out on which, but we’re forever. That’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s an addict. And an alcoholic. Which doesn’t make him unique in our family, like, at all.” Mikey breathes out through clenched teeth, looking down the sidewalk. “It’s in the blood.”

“So that’s where your money goes?” At Mikey’s blink, Pete shrugs again. “I’ve seen movies. Drugs and strippers, right?”

“No. Used to. But…” Mikey laughs again and this time it’s a bit more normal, just enough to make Pete’s heart ease in his chest. “Right now I’m supporting Gerard. Paying his rent and buying his groceries and shit. So he can focus on art and recovery and not anything else, anything that would stress him out.”

“And you?”

Mikey leans back against the wall and gestures vaguely. “I don’t know. Clean.”

“But not sober. That part’s pretty obvious.”

“I don’t think I can do both. Not and hold things together for him. I have to pick one.”

“I get that. I think.” Pete bites his lip. “Can I kiss you? I really fucking want to kiss you right now.”

“Yeah. Absolutely.” Mikey half-smiles, and Pete isn’t sure if it’s real or just the light, but it looks like his eyes are full of tears.

Pete carefully cradles Mikey’s face in his hands and kisses him, lingering for as long as he can until Mikey turns his face to the side and takes a deep breath. “We’ve all got stuff,” he says, resting his forehead on Mikey’s shoulder. “I’m a mess. Gabe and Trav are a mess. But, you know. You get through the day. And then the day after that. You just keep going.”

“It seems like you should aim higher than just keep going.”

Pete shrugs. “Says who?”

“I don’t know. Everybody.”

“Fuck them.” Pete shrugs again and closes his eyes, breathing in Mikey’s scent through his t-shirt. “This is working for me. When it stops working, I’ll figure out something else. I’m not gonna give up.”

“You’re brave.”

“I’m stubborn.” Pete glances up at him. “I almost gave up once. Only made it through because of dumb luck. Now I’m just… I keep going.”

Mikey nods slowly. “I still think you’re brave.”

“You’re wrong, but I won’t argue about it.”

Mikey catches Pete’s chin with two fingers, carefully lifting it. “I admire you. Don’t argue about that either, okay?”

Pete lets Mikey guide him into another kiss. There’s nothing to admire about him, he knows that, but hearing Mikey say it makes him feel like he could walk on air.

“Should we go back to the shop?” Mikey asks quietly. “You have to work, right?”

“I do. Yeah.” Pete nods and takes a step back, trying to find his balance again. “You want to hang out at the shop? Or go home? Or I could meet you somewhere when we close up.”

“I’ll hang out if I won’t be in the way.” Mikey’s shoulders hunch and he makes a face. “I feel like if I go out tonight I’ll probably get stupid.”

“You won’t be in anybody’s way.” Pete takes his hand and they start down the sidewalk again, back toward the shop. “You and Gabe can sit up front and flirt with the customers.”

“You don’t pay him for that, do you?”

“Travie pays him in sexual favors.” Pete squeezes his hand. “They’re gross. You’ll get used to it.”

“I hope you keep me around long enough to get used to it. That would be awesome.”

“I want to. I mean, you know, I can’t predict the future or anything, but… I want to. If that counts.”

Mikey smiles at him and Pete feels like he’s floating again. “It totally counts.”

**

80s Night at Julian’s finally comes around, and Pete is ready for it. He has hair, makeup, clothes all planned out, an entire _look_ , which is awesome but means he’s definitely going to be late. Mikey and Gabe are texting him pictures from the bar before he even has his eyeliner done. Jerks.

Travie’s covering the shop until closing, then coming to join them, so Pete texts back to Mikey and Gabe to pace themselves and turns back to the mirror. Sending those two out together worries him a little bit, because neither of them is great at impulse control and alcohol as a combination. But they’ll look out for each other. It’s what they do. 

_we r gunna start picking up dudes if u don’t hurry up_ , Gabe texts.

 _lies_ , Pete answers, and checks himself in the mirror. He looks good. 

_hurry uppppp_ , Gabe says.

Pete sends him a picture of himself in the mirror and grabs his wallet from the bedside table.

 _mikey says u look hot_.

 _tell him thx_.

 _tell him urself_.

 _on my way_.

Gabe texts him a few more times on his walk to the bar, random thoughts and mild threats that make Pete roll his eyes, but the messages die off by the time Pete reaches the line stretching down the block from Julian’s’ door. Mikey stopped texting even before Gabe did; Pete assumes they went out on the floor. He thinks about that while he waits in line, tilting his head back to look at the gray-yellow fuzzy sky through the glow of the streetlights. Picturing Gabe and Mikey dancing makes his chest feel tight, in a good way—it’s something he wants to see, wants to touch. He wants to wrap it up inside of himself and keep it forever.

His phone buzzes again and he checks it, bouncing slowly on his toes in rhythm with the music coming from inside. It’s from Travie. _shonna’s here and we’re slow so she’s kicking me out. on my way._

 _ill save u a spot in line_ , Pete texts back. This is even better. His heart feels full, just imagining it, having his people together at once. People have told him before that he has weird ideas about love, and maybe that’s true, but he doesn’t want to change anymore. He just wants to pull all of that love in close and hold it to his chest for as long as he can. It makes him warm. It lets him breathe.

80s Night is such a big overcrowded deal that when Travie gets there Pete has only moved about four feet closer to the door. “She can’t kick you out, you know,” he says by way of greeting as Travie merges into the line beside him. “You own the place.”

“You know what I meant.” Travie slips his arm around Pete’s shoulder and pulls him into a loose hug. “She told me to get out and have some fun.”

“If they ever let us inside.”

“Patience, Petey.” Pete tucks himself against Travie’s body, safe under the curve of his arm, and they’re quiet for a while, shuffling forward as the line moves.

“Do you think this one’s going to work out?” Pete asks finally, when they’re almost to the door.

“This one what?”

“Me and Mikey.” It sounds strange, out loud. He wants to test the words with his tongue, repeat them until they make sense.

“You like him. He’s nice to you.”

“He’s got issues.” Pete worries his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, then shrugs. “So do I, though.”

“Everybody does.” Travie squeezes him again, then lets him go as the bouncer waves them forward. “Worry about it later. Have fun tonight.”

Inside Julian’s, the lights are low except for cascades of colors bouncing off the walls. Pete goes up on his toes to look as they get close to the dance floor, scanning the crowd for Mikey and Gabe’s lanky frames. He finds them at the far end and his heart shivers in his chest. He feels like he might light up, or fly away.

Travie gives him a little push from behind and he moves into the crowd, letting the music fill him up, like love does.


End file.
